


Of Plumes & Other Gentle Notions

by sssnakelady



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Angels Becoming Humans, Anxiety, Child Neglect, Comfort, Demons, Domestic Fluff, Fallen Angels, Genderfluid Character, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Parent-Child Relationship, Softie Crowley (Good Omens), Wedding Rings, Wing Grooming, Wings, crowley has a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 00:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20267203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sssnakelady/pseuds/sssnakelady
Summary: A collection of unrelated ficlets celebrating and exploring the love between one demon and his angel.Snippet from chapter 1 -There is a gentle snag at fire touched locks from a ring on a portly finger. It is inset with moonstones that glint unnaturally like stars. One of Crowley’s last few miracles and his own finger sports its companion.They’ve settled into this slow life. This gentle life that is just the two of them. Of afternoon shopping where Crowley complains the entire time about crowds and overpriced garbage. Of dinners spent at home more than away and Crowley cooks because Aziraphale hasn’t a hand for it. His angel prefers to do the eating and Crowley has learned he greatly enjoys watching Aziraphale eat the food he has made just for him.Whether Aziraphale means it or not when he says there is nothing more delicious he has tasted doesn’t really matter. He can watch his angel enjoying himself for all eternity with complete rapture.This is his heaven.





	1. I'll Take You To the Sun, On A Wing

**Author's Note:**

> Adapted from a roleplay. 
> 
> This story revolves around the "what if" of Crowley and Aziraphale also having been in love as angels.  
Set many years after the conclusion of the series. 
> 
> I will add chapters as I finish transferring them over to fic format and will update the tags as I go.  
Thank you for giving this a read! <3 
> 
> (Title lyrics are from the song Plume by Caravan Palace)

_ Do you remember what it was like? _

This is a question he loathes. 

It is a question he has been asked before. By other demons but mostly by himself - in his head every so many hundreds of years so that he doesn’t lose what little still clings to him of that place. Of heaven and its white walls and it’s holier than thou means. Its symmetrical everything and cascades of gold hues. 

Of a certain angel, too. 

One who asks him this now in the privacy of their shared home. This shared space where all their things are nestled in close. Just as they are too, now, Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair - lulling him into a false sense of security before posing such a question. 

It sinks his stomach immediately to his knees. 

He opens his eyes to stare ahead at the potted plants dotting the window sill across the length of the living room from the couch. There is a gentle snag at fire touched locks from a ring on a portly finger. It is inset with moonstones that glint unnaturally like stars. One of Crowley’s last few miracles and his own finger sports its companion. 

They’ve settled into this slow life. This gentle life that is just the two of them. Of afternoon shopping where Crowley complains the entire time about crowds and overpriced garbage. Of dinners spent at home more than away and Crowley cooks because Aziraphale hasn’t a hand for it. His angel prefers to do the eating and Crowley has learned he greatly enjoys watching Aziraphale eat the food he has made just for him. 

Whether Aziraphale means it or not when he says _ there is nothing more delicious he has tasted _ doesn’t really matter. He can watch his angel enjoying himself for all eternity with complete rapture. 

_ This is his heaven _. 

But there is a question that has been posed. 

It is not the first time from those lips, but it is the first since they have promised themselves to each other. Crowley knows it is a question that can’t just be shrugged off any longer as a demon who simply doesn’t want to talk about it. 

This isn’t about his _ fall _. 

They have spoken in length by now about that. The way Aziraphale had puffed up in righteous anger had nearly soothed every lingering burn from his descent away. _ To punish your child for asking questions _ \- Aziraphale’s indignation had warmed him. 

They have many children around them now, growing by leaps and bounds. Filling their home with left behind things to sometimes be collected later. There is never a question they do not answer, even if sometimes the answer is just - _ I don’t know _. 

Aziraphale answers his questions too, encourages him to ask even when they prove too big a thing to be answered. He appreciates the allowance, this release of the eternal festering in his mind. This _ unholy _ need for knowledge and there is nothing more touching to him than when Aziraphale comes back some time later with an answer. As though his angel had taken to pondering relentlessly until he’d sussed out all the details. But sometimes there are no answers and sometimes, even worse, there are painful ones. Answers that can only be whispered about in sad tones or reluctantly admitted. 

_ Lies _ especially. _ Hidden truths _ even more. Those lies by omission. 

They are both culprits of this and lifting the lid on some answers can hide vipers with dripping fangs. This truth has to be handled carefully or he knows it will poison the both of them. 

Crowley sighs, asks himself one last time if running away is an acceptable response but knows that it isn’t. They have promised honesty, faithfulness, and he must answer this question no matter how painful it is. 

He reaches back, stills one of those hands, and feels his fingers pass over the ring there. It has been a constant for many years now, but he still can’t get over the jitters it causes when a touch reminds him. When he tilts his head back the smile on his face is lopsided, endearing but complicated. He doesn’t want to talk about it, but he will. 

For Aziraphale he will. 

“I remember some things.” He says, working his jaw, making it move and speak. 

How does he start this? How does he tell this story? This one of _ love _ from the _ beginning _? Of stars and galaxies, of ferns and wet earth, but of light and angels too? How can he speak without having to say words? 

He’s bad at words. So fundamentally horrid with them - always saying the wrong thing, asking questions at the worst times. He wants to get his words across without static. Without the stuttering, jumbled mess of his mouth mucking it up. 

So how? 

What strikes him feels damning to ask. He has _ never _ asked it yet he feels he must. 

Crowley pushes from the couch, from those hands in his hair, his long limbs full of sudden motion. He wriggles his fingers to beckon Aziraphale in. His mouth opens twice, makes of him what he can only assume is an apt impression of a red herring dangling from a wire and his cheeks flush to match. 

“Let me groom you?” He requests, managing to get the words out, but his eyes have darted to the side. 

He’s embarrassed, feeling crass in asking. Aziraphale delights in grooming Crowley’s wings but has never asked for a return and Crowley has never offered. Not even inquired because it’s always felt wrong to. A _ demon _ grooming an angel? Getting his sin soaked fingers on the holiest parts of Aziraphale? What if he tainted them? He’s had nightmares of it before. Running his fingers through that soft down only to watch as they turn ink black before him - because of him. 

He’s told himself for so long that he can’t. He already knows what they feel like, after all. 

He knows precisely what Aziraphale’s wings feel like against his hands, his face - the press of feathers to a cheek. What they smell like as he breathes them in, as they brush against his nose. What Aziraphale sounds like when he laughs and says _ that tickles _. He knows all these things, but his angel is unaware. 

He had not been Crowley then, not even _ Crawly _ . He hadn’t been a demon and he’s kept this secret so close to his heart - letting it grow thick throughout, thorns and all. Interwoven into the depths of him, to his core. This radiant love he can’t control. This _ sinful _love and a question he can never take back. 

__\- _Can I have this for myself? _

“Of course, my dear. I’d like that very much.” 

There is no reluctance in that voice, only sincerity. The gentle light in the room catches on their rings as their hands meet and Aziraphale smiles at him. Ever warm and gentle. 

“To the bedroom, dearest?” His angel asks and Crowley nods, leading the way. 

They could commit to this down here, but there is sentiment in that request. Where Crowley has no issue draping his wings over chairs or couch cushions in his greedy quest to feel Aziraphale’s hands on him, this is different. It is a first, in a way, but also the slow unfurling of a long kept secret. A private sanctuary to them, like the bedroom, would be best. 

He takes one step at a time, the two of them filling up the space of the stairwell because Crowley doesn’t want to break the contact of their hands. There is further crowding when they reach the peace and comfort of their room, the rumpled and never well made bed always an inviting sight. 

He is gentle with Aziraphale’s waistcoat and the dress shirt beneath it. They can’t be fickle with their miracles anymore. Crowley had learned first, too many grandiose gestures - mainly in making their home their refuge - but the most he can do anymore are little things like helping the garden grow in the winter months. They’ve agreed Aziraphale can’t waste whatever is remaining of his, just in case, and so Crowley removes layers until his angel is left only in his unders. Things easily replaced if torn. 

It is here he can’t resist a kiss. A gentle touch of lips and a soft declaration of affection that he’s done a thousand times now and will continue doing many times more. From here he leads Aziraphale to the bed, carefully rolling up his own sleeves, trying not to draw attention to the way his fingers twitch and spasm. He is still afraid of this. Of his nightmare possibilities even while he is telling himself they have done so many more intimate things without repercussion. 

_ Would She make this the damning thing? Does She even care enough anymore to be watching that closely? _

Crowley swallows, straightens his shoulders, and tells himself it must be time. He waves his hands in a gesture that encourages Aziraphale to let his wings loose. He hasn’t seen them in at least a dozen years, not since they’d stood beside Adam - hand in hand in hand - but he knows they will be just as beautiful now as they ever have been. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes, rolls his shoulders back, and slowly those wings appear, a gentle motion as they stretch outwards. There is a sigh of relief that escapes his angel and the other tilts his neck from one side to the other. There is a hand reaching for his, catching it and bringing it to an eager mouth to kiss at his palm. He can feel the smile spread there against his skin. 

“Are you sure, my dear?” 

He has stopped breathing. 

His eyes are glued solely on the swell of white taking over his vision and he feels light enough to sway briefly on his feet before righting his position. He forces a long inhale, holds it in his chest and lets words jumble around in the air there for a long moment before exhaling. 

“Yea, m’sure.” 

He is sure. This isn’t about certainty. He always _ wants _ to touch them but this is instead about fear - about consequence. About what he can lose by giving into greedy desire. 

Still, he squeezes Aziraphale’s hand and slides to the spot on the bed behind him, feels it dip beneath his weight. There is hesitation now, he can’t help himself, as his hands hover in the space between them. He bites at his lower lip, worries it red with his teeth. But he has asked, gotten Aziraphale’s hopes up, and he can’t balk now. 

Crowley swallows and the first touch is a tentative thing, barely there on the outer curve of a primary feather. There and gone again just as quickly and he waits - _ waits _ to see if dark ink flows to stain the purest white. 

Nothing happens. 

They stay in pristine color if not in appearance, ruffled from Aziraphale’s lack of attention to them, and he makes himself touch them again. Long fingers dance over the nearest feathers and Crowley watches them move. Watches as the tips of his fingers disappear between the fluffier mass of them, knuckles brushing over the longer ones in their movement. He thinks they feel precisely as he remembers - tells himself they must. This is all he has of before, these small moments of shared company. 

The feeling welling in him now is suffocating in its intensity, making his next inhale watery, and his eyes too. He closes them but it does no good and the tears scald at his skin as they fall. His chest feels full to bursting and behind his eyes, in this distant vision held within his heart, the world is surrounded in _ white _. 

He buries his fingers into those wings against his own command and he can’t help pressing his cheek to the curve of a bone below the mass of feathers. He can’t remember what he, himself, had looked like then. Nor what his name had been, or even what class of angel. None of that matters, in the end. What has always mattered was this - _ them _. The two of them together. 

He had _ fallen _ for this, for exactly this, and in this singular moment he thinks he can forgive Her. Maybe this had been the only way. Maybe he will never know. He may never know all the answers in the universe, but this feels worth it, most days. Knowing that Aziraphale shares this feeling that is only theirs. 

There is a carefully sealed box in the corner of their hearts and it is with this that it comes unraveled. 

“Oh - Crowley. It’s _ you _.” Aziraphale breaths, and those too blue eyes fill rapidly with overflowing tears. 

Neither of them move. One reeling in the knowledge of what has been found again, and the other reveling in what has not been lost. 

“I remember _ you _.” His voice is a soft, barely there whisper. 

This is all he has to give Aziraphale for his question, yet it feels as damning as his eternal existence. He won’t dare speak more truth than this, can never say out loud that it is this selfish love that had put the final nail down. To admit this would be an act of cruelty to them both. It is likely, in some sense, they both know anyway. 

“You still treat them like they’re an old pair of shoes.” Crowley needles, falling into that familiar ease of bickering. 

His hands raise so both smooth over the feathers at the curves, sorting them into something more manageable. He opens his eyes, and though they glisten with tears he is alert and paying careful attention. These wings under his hands are still pure, still warm and radiant, free of corruption. He has not tainted them with his sins and he can now exhale this toxic worry finally. He refocuses on his hands and puts them to work while Aziraphale tuts at him. 

“Not at all, my dear. I treat my shoes rather better, I would say.” 

There is a damp laugh from his angel that follows and Aziraphale arches eager into his touch. He waits a heartbeat, two more, and then speaks again, his fingers going still. 

“Are you disappointed?” The words lacerate his tongue but demand to be asked. 

He can’t stomach them once they’re out in the open, making the whole of him churn sick, because what if the answer is yes? It should be. They’d been close, hadn’t they? What memories he clings to still paint this picture, and what if these same memories are painful for Aziraphale? Knowing how much he’s truly lost. Just how far Crowley has _ fallen _. 

_ To be here. To be exactly here, with you, forever. Please know that _. 

The silence yawns between them, threatens this brittle outer shell of his heart as he waits for an answer. He wants to believe there can be no room for such feelings, that Aziraphale thinks more of him than that. 

“Disappointed? Not at all, Crowley. Darling -” 

Here Aziraphale shifts, twisting to cup his cheek, a few tears trickling down rose tinted cheeks. 

“My dear, it’s quite fitting, really, that in the end the only being who has ever truly held my heart has been you. I only wish I’d seen it sooner - that I’d realized -” Aziraphale hesitates, brushes a thumb over his cheek and Crowley lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

Briefly he closes his eyes, can’t help tilting his face further into that hand, leaving scattered kisses across a palm. 

He can’t deny the roll of possessiveness that slithers up his spine and he wants to bury himself deep against his angel. Curl around him all limbs, bones, and heart too. Tell the world there would be no taking this from him, never again. Not when they’ve made it this far and the knowledge that he has only _ ever _ been all Aziraphale sees makes him molten from the inside out. 

“It was better that way, you not knowing. I’m not the same anymore.” 

And how heartbreaking would that have been? Aziraphale knowing, maybe striving to rebuild that same bond? Instead they’d created what they had between them now. Something stronger and without this knowledge or otherworldly prejudice left between them.

“No, you’re rather not. But then - neither am I.” His angel muses and he knows there is only truth in those words.

Neither of them are the same. Aziraphale not nearly so different in the sheer nature of being, but decidedly less _ angel _ than any other of his making. This was, of course, precisely why he was so enamored with the other in the first place. This bit of _ tarnish _ that made Aziraphale so unlike anything else. (Aziraphale’s words, of course, never his. He much prefers the token term _ bastard _.) 

It is only in these differences, in himself too, that they can settle into such a life as this. One where feeling a little more _ human _ every day has its rewards. 

“I cannot imagine the sort of self-bereavement you were putting yourself through, all this time. _ Angel, demon _ \- those don’t matter anymore, not for us. You said it first, didn’t you? We’re on our own side now, and I love you, _ exactly _ as you are.” 

Aziraphale’s words leave little room for argument and Crowley can only wrinkle his nose, unwilling to admit to anything about his own grievous lack of self worth. Unable to watch Aziraphale frown over it he kisses his angel instead, slow and not lacking in any sweetness. 

When he pulls away he shuffles back to his place, returning to his task, and sinks his fingers once more into feathers with a sense of abandon this time. His angel croons, ruffles up his wings, and Crowley knows well from personal experience this is one of the greatest feelings in the world. 

It isn’t until several long minutes of working them into some semblance of _ right _ that he speaks again, his voice soft - compelled to spill more of his secrets. 

“I thought.. I would dirty them.” He swallows, forces his fingers to keep moving, smoothing out a primary and so thankful they are still beautifully white. 

“I’ve never asked, but you’ve wanted me to, I know. I couldn’t bear it if I stained them.” 

_ Turned them ugly as mine _. 

Black as coal, as voids, as _ sin _. Those ink dark wings of his that block out the light. Not like Aziraphale’s, which make fractal patterns on the bed where the sun casts off them from the small corner window. 

“Crowley…” There is another soft sigh and Crowley ducks his head at the sound of his name in that tone. 

It’s not quite reprimanding, more that ever present worry he knows Aziraphale radiates for him. As though he’s some delicate thing that needs special care. He’s begrudging to admit this might be true. _ Sensitivity _ is not an attribute most demons have, but it’s difficult to deny after all this time that it is there. Has always been there in the way he quietly mourns his heartaches of the world. His own fall, of course, but the perils of humanity to their creator also. 

He is the only demon to have wept for them, and he thinks maybe the only _ angel _ too. He knows Aziraphale loves them, of course, but in that detached way that is the nature of angels. A safeguard to the heart that Crowley knows is wise but has never been able to actually wear with any success. 

“My dear, your wings are beautiful and I love them - surely you know this. Besides, in the grand scheme of things, my hands are just as dirty as yours in the eyes of the powers that be. If anyone was to be staining my wings it would have been my own doing.” Aziraphale continues and the words said make his too soft heart quake.

As it ever has for this angel. 

He gives up on grooming so he can thread his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, pressing his nose in against the short hairs at the back of the other’s neck. There is too much emotion caught in him, tumbling about and demanding release. This comes out in the way his hands fidget, try to find just the right places to curl into an undershirt. In the twitch of his mouth pressed to the nape of a neck as he struggles for the right words. How does he express these emotions out loud? Too big to be contained, but also too fragile to be voiced? It is only them, it has always only ever been the two of them, but how does he say the depths this means to him? 

A shift in the air brings with it the scent of ash. Of smoked wood and camphor too. This smell he has never liked but that Aziraphale will sigh over and say it reminds him of Rome. Of Paris. Of Mesopotamia and the Garden wall too. Of all the places Crowley has slid in and out of history to share spaces with his angel to leave little but memories and that scent behind. It’s always strongest when his wings are out and it permeates the air now as black masses cut off some of the light from that window. 

They arch, curl forward to tentatively caress at Aziraphale’s own. The times their wings have shared the same spaces is dismally few. Able to be counted on a single hand and never has he been so daring as to let them touch like this. With such intimacy that has them quivering, Crowley unable to hide this overabundance of emotion. Maybe he doesn’t need to find the right words. Maybe this can be precisely enough to get across his fear of ruin, but also this prodigious need for the other. 

This love that has spanned infinite life times. 

Aziraphale leans back into him, lets their wings touch in ways they’ve only done in long imagined dreams and he can feel his angel’s tears catch on his fingers. His own there too against the back of a neck. 

_ I remember you _ echoes between them, painting this picture of their love in broad strokes. 

And he thinks he can rest easier knowing there are no ink stains on their masterpiece. 

Only the feather-quill scrawl of an angel’s name penned on his heart. 


	2. Think About What You Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Composure. 
> 
> Normally this is something he wears like a second skin. No matter the face, or the state of dress, or even the body. Crowley knows how to appear composed. He is perfectly in control, even in the ways he exaggerates his movements. It’s purposeful. 
> 
> Being caught with one's knickers down isn’t at all composed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adapted from a roleplay. 
> 
> This chapter involves the more tender side of Crowley while he is Nanny Ashtoreth caring for Warlock.  
Aziraphale just so happens to be present to witness this softer side. 
> 
> There is a spicy second part to this that will be added later! ;3
> 
> (The chapter title is lyrics from the song Waterguns by Caravan Palace)

* * *

Composure. 

Normally this is something he wears like a second skin. No matter the face, or the state of dress, or even the _ body _. Crowley knows how to appear composed. He is perfectly in control, even in the ways he exaggerates his movements. It’s purposeful. 

Being caught with one's _ knickers down _ isn’t at all composed. 

Not precisely caught, for at least he was wise enough to lock the door. There is a face pressed to his abdomen, just beside his navel, vibrant blue staring up at him with a look that is both dread and utter consternation. Crowley had promised there would be none to call on him this evening. Usually there wasn’t, but some things were entirely out of his control. 

The hiccoughing little voice on the other side of the heavy wooden door was wholly unexpected. 

_ Nanny Ashtoreth _ had been very exact in her words. It was her night off, she would appreciate her privacy. There would be no tolerance for greedy little attention seekers this evening. 

To most, Warlock was a child that did not like to listen. As he grew in age, nearly seven now, he wholly enjoyed causing trouble. As a little anti-Christ ought to do. This never extended to the nanny, although one would have to pay quite close attention to the child to notice. Nanny Ashtoreth was _ always _ attentive of the child. As such, Warlock respected when she told him he could not do something. This now means only one thing. 

Something had terribly upset the boy. 

Crowley’s eyes fall to the face still cupped in his hands. These moments he can talk this angel into debauchery are so exceedingly rare. Anyone else might think it fair to turn the child away in such a situation. It is past hours, Warlock has his own parents to cry to - but does he really? 

A sigh passes Crowley’s lips, a thumb running along the curve of a cheek, and he hisses so low as to only be heard between the two of them. 

“Closet, there, now.” 

He doesn’t wait for Aziraphale to agree, merely steps back - snapping his fingers to miracle his nightgown back into place. He takes merely a moment to adjust his hair before calling to the child. 

“Yes, nanny is here.” 

There is a huff of indignation behind him, but also a soft click of the closet door sliding shut. From here he knows Aziraphale can easily snap himself away without being spotted, suspects the angel will do precisely that. His own attention has turned entirely to the door of the dismally small guest house. When he opens it there is the tear-stained face of his little cherub and Warlock smashes into his hip with a sob. There is the gentlest coo of _ shh _ as he gathers the boy into his arms, whisking him to the bed which is barely fitting for one. 

“Tell me what’s the matter child?” 

_ Nanny’s _ voice is softer than his usual tones, and his request is met with the woeful tale of a child ignored. Questions unanswered and more toys given purely to divert attention. It is the brittle frustrations of a boy that just wants to know the adults in his life care for him. _ Abuse _ is more than a thing set in physical violence and Crowley tries his best to ease the pain of a _ creator _ that can’t be bothered. 

Instead he delicately reminds Warlock that one day _ everyone _ will love him. That he is destined for the greatest things, and those who don’t notice his brilliance - his _ worthiness _ \- will be the ones to suffer. Crowley spins a fantastical story of a future precisely how Warlock wishes it to be and tucks the boy in close, watching as sleepy eyes rove through the bare thin room. 

It would be a child who spots it. This age worn, weather torn, and war ravaged doll that sits among an eclectic mess of plants and makeup on a small cabinet near the bed. Crowley doesn’t stop Warlock when he crawls along the sheets to reach for it, only hesitating in a singular twitch of his fingers. When the boy chooses to cradle it carefully the tension in his shoulders slowly eases. 

“I thought I was the only one you cared about.” Warlock pouts and Crowley leans in to pinch at a cheek, giving the boy a reprimanding hiss. 

“I can care about many things, all at once, but I promise you are the _ most _ important.” 

Warlock seems pacificed by this, for now, and returns to cuddle against him, holding the bedraggled doll in his lap. 

“Did you care about them too?” 

It is an innocent question, but nonetheless a painful one. Crowley can’t resist running his finger tips over the yarn hair with it’s burnt and blackened ends. 

“Yess.” He allows, unable to keep the snake from his voice because he means the word so ardently. 

“Can I trust you to take good care of it?” He questions Warlock and watches the boy’s eyes grow wide - lighting up in a way that is so distressingly rare as of late. 

Warlock nods, tucking the doll in close before leaning up to plant a kiss on his nanny’s cheek. 

“Do you need me to tuck you in?” Crowley asks and the boy slides from the bed with a shake of his head. 

There is a puff of the chest that Crowley knows is pure stubborn pride from the child. It makes a smile split over his own features, reaching his eyes - hidden by his ever present glasses. 

“Good boy. Off you get then. I will see you in the morning.” It is a promise and he watches as Warlock scampers to the door. 

The boy pauses, looking back at him with bright eyes that tell all. 

“I love you, nanny.” Warlock says and without hesitation Crowley responds in kind. 

“I love you too, my little demon.” 

They’ve shared this exchange numerous times. The moniker isn’t quite right - the other demons would scream at him for such a disgrace in referring to the anti-christ as if he is no more than they are - but when Warlock’s face splits into an impish grin of delight he knows it is precisely right for them. 

Crowley waves the boy along with a shooing hand, watching the door close and listening to the patter of bare feet across the grass lawn. He sags back over a pillow then, red hair spilling every which way, and long limbs easing out. Alone now with his thoughts, his scattered fragments of memories better forgotten and his anger too - over a world that can dare forget it’s children. 

There is a growling groan from Crowley that follows the opening of that closet door. He is stuck now between embarrassment and consternation. A hand shifts, snags a pillow, and he hurls it at the angel with little heat behind the action. 

“You were _ suppose _ to miracle away, you nosy little -” 

“You didn’t say a thing about my leaving, just getting into the closet - which I did, by the way.” 

There is a joke here. Something about _ stepping out of closets _, but Crowley finds he is hardly in the mood to make the effort. His tirade has teetered off and he watches Aziraphale sidestep the pillow and move further into his space, smoothing down the lapels of his coat. 

“You truly love him, Crowley, don’t you? I’ve never heard you speak to him like that. I’ve certainly never heard him respond so positively to anyone. You’ve quite the gift for children, it seems.” 

All Crowley has to respond at first is sigh, settling a hand over his nose to rub at the twitching pain behind it. 

“Someone ought to love him, don’t you think? His parents certainly don’t feel _ up to it, _most days.” He bites out through a sneer, pinching the bridge of his nose hard enough to turn his glasses a bit sideways. 

It’s only the two of them in the room now so he decides he doesn’t much need them anyway. He tosses them aside on the bed, rolling onto his side to face Aziraphale as the other draws closer. There is the smallest of windows above them - just enough for air and a bit of moonlight to pass through in the otherwise dim space. It casts off his long hair and the picture he makes in a women’s sleeping gown that is dark as pitch but sparkles with little insets. 

He props one hand under a cheek, holds himself up that way. His other hand ventures forward, long fingers hesitating to close the distance between them, falling flat over the sheets without completing their quest. 

There is a line, between sex and intimacy, that shouldn’t be crossed. 

Seeking comfort is an allowance he can’t have, no matter how easily he’ll reward it to others. 

_ Quite the gift for children _ Aziraphale had said, but is that it? Or is it merely that he can watch them and _ understand _ their desperate, clambering need for any scrap of comfort? For praise, reward, even acceptance. All those things that promote a positive growth. They’ve made a promise to care for this child, to shape this impressionable mind to be _ human _ and one can not forget the fundamental needs of one. 

“Children can be quite difficult to love at times, these days - but I do know what you mean. His parents treat him as if he’s simply another possession they’ve managed to acquire for their estate.” Aziraphale notes, that tone souring.

“_ Love _ is not difficult.” Crowley argues, his statement bold and defiant. He gives up on holding his weight up, lets delicate waves of crimson settle against the sheets. 

“_ Tantrums _ are difficult. _ Jealousy _ and _ greed _ are difficult.” He continues, rolling his wrist in an exaggerative motion as if it might help get his point across. “I don’t need to sense the emotion anymore to understand what it is and what it shouldn’t be.” 

And so it is something he never lies about. He can only say that word in earnest, especially to such young ears who need to hear it the most. He spreads his fingers now, holds them above his head so he can stare at the bits of moonlight that cast through them. There is still a frown marring his face. 

“We can’t ever save them all, so we might as well do what we can when we can. What are angels good for if they can’t even save the children?” He mutters, catching memories in that fragmented light. 

Of floods, of wars, of poverty and so many children gone too soon. Of an angel who only ever tells him it’s _ all part of Her plan _ with a sad look and no intention of changing a thing. 

“That’s not fair, Crowley.” Aziraphale counters, glancing aside, frame stiff.

There is heartache in that voice and Crowley blinks. It is slow, almost reptilian, as he tries to recall what has brought them to this point of tension. He swallows, his expression reading guilty, unable to be hidden in this small space they’ve taken up. He hadn’t meant it, not entirely. Not toward him. There was no blaming just one entity for all the cruelty in the world. Often such cruelty caused by humanity and its own selfishness. 

“You know as well as I that there was nothing I could do. I’d be as effective as a napkin in a typhoon - discorporated in an instant for daring to protest.” 

Crowley scoffs at that, shifts away to hide some of his face because he knows Aziraphale is not wrong. Still, he wonders sometimes - does this angel even weep for them? For all the genuinely _ good _ lives lost to tragedy? He can’t find it in him to believe a one of them sheds a tear for humanity. Not like he himself has for countless numbers of them. 

“I would save them all, if I could.” Aziraphale adds in a small voice. 

“I know you would.” Crowley says, his own voice equally small, hushed. 

Maybe it is not as in angelic nature as one would think, but he does believe Aziraphale’s words. Whether it is for the angel’s own need for indulgence or a genuine care for humanity perhaps it does not matter. They are both still here, trying at long last to change the course of things. This is really all he can ask. 

“Don’t think so lowly of me, Crowley. I know you haven’t a good image of angels, but we aren’t all so - so stuffy.” Aziraphale keeps on, stubborn. 

“Lowly of you?” Crowley asks, eyes narrowed, and there is a hiss beneath his tone. _ Never _ is there, under the current of it all, without his ever saying the word. 

“It’s not angels I have a low opinion of.” He corrects, but doesn’t dare speak further on it. Neither of them will enjoy that conversation. Mostly, he just aches - for all the things he can’t fix, or save, or _ be _ because he doesn’t have the answers. No matter what he thinks of any of them, Aziraphale is still different. Has always been different and someone worthy of his interest. 

He lets his hand settle on the sheets again between them, gently curled in the fabric, and a responding touch draws his attention. Crowley twists his neck at an awkward angle so he can look back at the other - not down - he can’t acknowledge things that way. Still his fingers twitch, spread open wide and inviting, waiting there for something they can never name. 

“Really, though, what more can we do? In the end - well. In the end, it’ll be up to Warlock, won’t it?” Aziraphale hedges, also not drawing attention to their barely touching hands. 

“It’s up to _ us _. In the end, if he doesn’t choose us, we’re the ones who’ve mucked it up.” Crowley hisses in response, not unkind about it. 

That was the reasoning behind it all, wasn’t it? Of romps in the garden to torment the tulips. Of math lessons and dirty knees. Of bubble baths and bedtime stories. This attachment he builds stronger each day toward the precise end they want - which is no _ ending _ at all. Just the continuation of what is and their lives among it. The two of them and humanity. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes, takes a careful breath, but those fingers are curling around Crowley’s wrist - the touch so infinitely light. 

“You’re right, my dear. Of course, you’re right. We’re here to help him. Ultimately helping him is the only way to save the world, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’ve not got as good a way with him as you do. There’s a reason I’m the gardener and not the nanny.” Aziraphale reminds him wryly. 

But there in lies a question. How do you truly fight not only God, but Satan as well? 

“Right.” Crowley agrees, even as he dares to wonder. 

He questions his priorities - what it is he’s most afraid of losing. When the world inevitably ends. They’ll fuck it up, after all. If for no other reason than he won’t be able to manage his own part, somehow. 

“Not all that much of a gardener either.” He teases instead, mouth slanting in mocking gesture, yet it is still a gentle sort of grin. 

For how often he has to miracle Aziraphale’s _ gardening _ back into shape - beneath the other’s nose - he feels the right to be a touch bratty on it. If nothing else maybe he can rescue this soured mood between them. 

“I’ll have you know I’ve kept the gardens in pristine condition for the entirety of my term here. Save for when you decide to goad Warlock into destroying several hours of hard work in about a millisecond.” Aziraphale counters, put upon. 

Fingers slide forward, lace between his own, and for some reason Crowley doesn’t expect it. This slow slide of skin between skin, nestling close and nearly too warm. His own fingers jolt, curl slowly in response. Of all the ways they have fit their bodies together this feels more dangerous than any of the others. He knows this by the way his heart speeds up in his chest by no more than a few beats. 

“You’ve no green thumb, Aziraphale, where I haven’t helped you out.” He badgers the other, unable to keep his thumb from swiping along the outer length of Aziraphale’s own at the comment. 

Crowley turns onto his back, once more bathed in moonlight from his face to his shoulders. Like this he beckons the angel in with his other hand. He’s trying to placate a different sort of tantrum he can see festering in those blue eyes. 

“What - that’s quite enough out of you, you fiend.” Aziraphale informs him with a great deal of huffing and frowning. 

The angel stares, and what does he see? How much does he know of the depths to which this has become? How endlessly Crowley ponders the anomaly of this angel and all the things he’s never allowed to have of him? His fingers shift again in that space between their hands. He wants to drag Aziraphale’s hand forward, press each digit to his lips, but there are secrets in even such a motion that he can’t spill. Aziraphale can never know the ways he wants to tear him asunder - beneath him, over him, deep down into his roots. This damning feeling can never be spoken or it would be the end of them. 

Instead it is time to focus on the fussing. On the way Aziraphale straightens and puffs up. It is easy here to let a grin slide lopsided onto his face. Easy to also tug on that hand in teasing fashion, hide the way he’s using the action to trace his thumb along a knuckle. An accident, only an accident of course. He still hears Aziraphale’s breath catch. 

“A fiend, am I?” This he can’t really refute, but it brings a sharp laugh, the baring of his throat to the moonlight cast over him. “I’ve been upgraded from the usual _ snake _ \- or is this a downgrade? How insulted should I be, angel?” 

Aziraphale attempts to settle comfortably on the bed, doesn’t quite manage it. 

“Indeed you are, Crowley. A _ clever _ fiend. But you’ll have to decide for yourself, won’t you?” Aziraphale tuts, preens, giving his hand a fond squeeze. 

Crowley can’t keep his fingers still but they never once try to pull away. He enjoys the way they fit there, is trying not to think on it for too long. He needs a distraction, something else to focus his restlessness on. The long fingers of his other hand caress the line of Aziraphale’s jaw. 

“If I get to decide the intent, why _ angel _, I didn’t know you could be so devious. Pure scandal there.” He goads, but suspects this might be dangerously close to the truth. 

Still, they can skirt this easily. Lie to one another, to the world, and play pretend until they’re gut sick with it. One finger catches on the curved end of that chin, flicks in near command with a crooked finger. He beckons - Aziraphale rolls his eyes but is helpless to lean forward all the same. 

“Oh, my dear, if either of us is creating scandal, it surely isn’t me.” There is mischief in those brilliant blues. 

They dance around the issue, banter to and fro. Never address the elephant in the room - not even if it’s chosen to wear a top hat and monocle while doing the tango. Ignore the obvious. Nothing for it, just smile and deflect, go about business as always. This Arrangement firmly in force. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“Since you stuck about, we might as well not waste the evening.” Crowley invites, never demands. 

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. The night is still young.” Aziraphale murmurs, leaning into his touch. “It does seem a shame to waste it, doesn’t it?” 

There is a roll of his eyes, a stretch of limbs too. He’s as much on the bed as off it now, crooked at an angle with only enough space for Aziraphale to just barely sit beside him. Occupying more of that space will mean coming closer, hitching one leg over a slim waist. Crowley thinks this is a goal worth tending to and so he curls his fingers around the back of a neck, draws Aziraphale in by that hold. 

“Nice night, good weather, would be a shame. Not making the most of it. Barely get a minute of free time around here.” He hums.

He gets an elbow beneath him, stretches up to claim a mouth that he knows is his for the taking. All the while he does not break the hold of their hands. He is unwilling to take away this strange intimacy neither of them will acknowledge. 

A dangerous thought lodges itself fast, gets stuck in the whirlwind of his mind. What would it be like - being fucked while palm to palm? How would it differ? Surely he’d leave crescent marks in the skin as he held on. Would Aziraphale wear them for a while? Let them heal naturally? Maybe trace them with blunt fingers and recall the memory of it? Even long after they’re gone from his skin? 

There is a thumb moving in return along the back of his hand, over the knuckles alongside the distraction of a kiss. He wonders what _ wily _ ways he’ll need to use his body to make that at all a reality. 

He has the better part of the evening still to find out.


End file.
